


The Juggler

by foolhardy



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolhardy/pseuds/foolhardy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numair breaks from Ozorne of Cathark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Saying ‘No’ to the Ozorne had very predictable results Arram thought detachedly. His back itched, it was odd how that was the sensation which dominated his mind. Funny how the itch from trickling blood could overwhelm the pain of the rest of him. Above all the aches of his body and agonised turnings of his emotions; his back itched. And the rest of him was all pain, if he cared to think about it. Which he didn’t. At all.

He wondered vaguely why he’d said it. Said ‘No’ when he had known, exactly, what would follow. He’d seen the punishments before. Creative punishments. Ozorne had never lacked imagination, at least, not in this, never in how he would treat his opposition. And Arram had opposed him. The thought of the fiery death usually reserved for traitorous mages, had not even crossed Arram’s mind when he’d looked Ozorne straight in the eye, and said ‘No’. 

He’d never said ‘No’ before. Well Arram had, of course, but never when it had mattered. As the tall man hung in the darkness he pondered his sudden backbone. For what else was there to do, attending to his aches would only be an act of futility and plotting an escape was laughable. One didn’t escape from the dungeons of the Emperor Mage.

Ozorne, his best friend, His Most Serene and Imperial Majesty, Ozorne Muhassin Tasikhe, Emperor of Carthak. Arram supposed that after this they weren’t friends anymore. His ribs ached in agreement. Why had Ozorne asked it of him? Black Robe he might be, but he had never shown any inclination to such violent magiks. Hadn’t he made his preference to academic puzzles clear? His achievement of the Black Robe was far more academic than, than anything else. While his gift was more suited to large displays, he had always shrunk from battle magic, instead using it for illusions and Lindhall’s projects. Ozorne had known this. He’d known that Arram couldn’t do it. Why had he asked it?

So he’d refused. He’d refused an order from His Imperial Majesty. And to refuse, that was death.

Even when he’d given breath to the words Arram hadn’t understood why he had refused. He’d never tried to take a life with his gift before. In fact there was no reason for the distinction. Arram had never tried to take a life before at all. So perhaps that was why, it felt more like him to refuse for selfish reasons. He shifted uncomfortably in his chains, his shoulders twinged and shot ripples of pain into his skull. Yes, that was why, the slaves, the traitors, whomever they’d been, had meant nothing to him, but he hadn’t wished to… to taint himself by killing them. Guilt welled up in his throat, but he knew that he wasn’t a good man, he hadn’t done it for them. They’d die anyway. 

Muffling a groan he shifted his weight from his right arm to the left. Hanging hurt. Only the very tips of his toes brushed the floor, unintentionally, the chains were meant for men slightly shorter than him. However he still couldn’t put any weight though his legs to relieve his arms, or wrists. The manacles cut into the edges of his hands, the flesh had purpled and broken in the eternity he’d hung in the cell. Arram had long given up holding onto the chains to spare himself the discomfort.

A steady walk sounded in the corridor. Arram stilled his shifting and waited, bile rising. He could pretend to himself all he liked that he wasn’t terrified, until he heard them coming. His vision swam as his heart rate rocketed, and, try as he might, he couldn’t grasp the concentration to calm it. Only his breathing remained steady, broken ribs ensured he didn’t change that rhythm at least.

Eskarne, have mercy, he begged the Tyrian goddess of compassion.

She hadn’t been listening. Understandable, once he woke and after the agony had faded to thought allowing levels, hours later. He had not, after all, paid any respects to the gods of his former homeland in many years. He spat again in his continued, and fruitless, attempt to wash the bile from his mouth. It was a stupid move, not only because was he dehydrated, but with the contents of his stomach pooled by his feet and crusted on his shirt front, he could hardly escape the smell. The movement also hurt his head, and made his vision swim, it darkened at the edges for a weightless moment.

He wanted to go home. Blinking he uttered a painful half laugh. Home? Since when had he thought of Tyra as home? Not for at least half a decade, probably more. He huffed out the wretched laugh again. Gods, what a mess. There was nothing for him in Tyra, he’d cut ties there, well and truly. Shakith, he didn’t even know if they still lived, his family, his blood. He didn’t know if he cared to know. Surely the news of his death would reach them, though? So they could have closure. Would they care? Would his mother shake her head in disappointment and say ‘I told you so’ to her husband. Then his father would get that cool look… Ozorne used a similar expression, he noted dully. No. Tyra held nothing for him, no one would miss him there.

Would anyone miss him? Lindhall would, he felt a brief surge of relief which was brushed away by the wash of grief. What must Lindhall be going through? That thought inspired cold fear. Surely they wouldn’t punish his mentor for Arram’s treason? He’d seen it happen before. Eskarne, he begged, Goddess of Mercy, see that Lindhall escapes this nightmare of mine unscathed. Perhaps she would listen when he asked benevolence for other people?

Lindhall was the only one who might suffer for his treason, but there were others who might miss him. Maybe Varice would, then again perhaps not, neither of them had been deeply attached. They had been friends and lovers, but beyond a superficial fondness and barely deeper amity, he held little for her. Still, he hoped she might grieve his passing, even for a short time. Selfish, yes, but the thought gave him some small contentment.

Of his fellows, the mages he’d trained with, the Masters, the University’s servants, there were only a few whom he had any companionship with. Kilma, Davo’t and Glinjtio Hadorn, were the core of them. They were the ones he would claim as friends, rather than close acquaintances or colleagues. 

Once Ozorne had once been counted in that number, but these past years his friend had changed. Not changed, per say. Indeed, it was more as if… as if Ozorne had been unveiling facets of his character. Perhaps the Emperor had been testing the limits of his position. Reading the crowd so to speak. Odd how Ozorne’s actions only slotted to form the real image of the Emperor now when Arram was hanging in his old friends’ dungeons. He had thought the mage overeager when Ozorne watched, transfixed, as this slave or that miscreant was thrown to the equally excited crocodiles. Yet Arram had not understood the fervent glint in the Emperor’s eyes as Tristan carried out Villuma’s execution. How had he been able to blind himself to it every time? Until it was too late.

Until it was Arram’s turn.

Would he burn like Villuma had? His defiance would count as higher treason to Ozorne than Villuma’s mistake. Arram’s insolence would be taken personally, and that could not be good. He retched, his chains clinking with the motion. His chest screamed. The creeping panic reared its head again. His Gift surged uselessly, both the chains and dungeon were magic supressing.

His Gift had surged.

Arram blinked. How? He knew that these were magic supressing chains, and the dungeon was warded so that the prisoners could not use magic. It was a fact. He’d read the ward schemes. Each cell had its own matrix of the damned things. Dozens of mages had woven them. There was no way, no way whatsoever that he could have overpowered them.

And yet.

Shoving logic to the side he roiled his Gift and shoved it at the chains. They smoked and shattered. Stunned he crumpled to the filthy floor. For a long moment he lay disbelieving, surely this was a trick? Or at least some sort of demented hallucination.

Letting logic go, no small feat, Arram rocked upright and gathered his Gift to push at the lock. The wall blew into dust. Sometimes, most times, being entirely incapable of subtlety was vexing. Stepping cautiously out into the hallway he found it empty. For whatever reason this didn’t alarm him, there were sound blocking spells on the dungeons to prevent uncivilised noises, such as Arram screaming, from upsetting the nobility. No one would have heard the wall giving out.

Quickly now, a sense of urgency pervading him, he scuttled to the stairs. Upwards and out. He moved fast now, pausing only briefly to check blind corners. One more level and he’d be on the surface, from there he could fly out.

Arram made it up the stairs and saw an open window straight ahead. Triumph filled him, he could do it!

The blast of mage fire caught him full on the side knocking him flat. Laughter rang through the air. “That was priceless, Arram!” the deep voice of Ilom Chioké called. “His Imperial Majesty thanks you for this evening’s entertainment. We’ve had ever so much fun watching your,” tittering laugher, “escape.” Arram was too terrified to blush in his humiliation. Seven mages surrounded him now, all red-robed, Masters. His eyes slid involuntarily to the window. Ilom tutted at him. “Bad Arram, your escapade is at its end. Back to your cell now.” He punctuated his words with a writhing ripple of orange magic.

Arram slid away from it and scrambled ungainly to his feet. He spun trying to see a way out, but now they were all firing at him. All of them, he knew all the faces from the university, but only one broke his heart. Stone faced and blasting lilac ropes towards him was Davo’t. Desperately Arram tried to meet the other’s eyes even as he deflected the attacks.

“Davo’t!” He gasped, his voice a croak. But his friend averted his gaze jaw tightening. Arram swallowed, so he’d find no help there. His eyes stung. 

Bleary eyes and panting from the pain of moving Arram did his best to block them. When he could he tried to send something back at them, but what did he know of offensive magic? They swatted his spells away while their fellows continued the onslaught. The outcome was inevitable.

The blue-green mage was the first to slip a burning rope past his defences. She yanked upsetting Arram’s balance and instantly every mage had two bindings on him. Arram scrabbled to brace his mind as together they sent agonizing jolts of magic down the lines into him. 

He screamed until he blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The requisite villainous visit

He came around in a horribly familiar position. That it was familiar after spending less than a week in Ozorne’s dungeons spoke for the impression waking up chained in a cell made. His back, especially his shoulders, was one massive ache. He tried to shift and almost screamed. His eyes watered. Nostrils flaring he focused on breathing. Stretching his toes he found he could not brush the floor. Gods.

His clothes were damp, and his shivered, although the dungeons were hardly cold. This was Cathark after all. While he trembled he noticed that his breathing was improved, his chest didn’t ache. He’d had a healing. Had the mages done more damage than he’d survive to his execution with? Or maybe Ozorne probably wanted him in pretty condition so he could make a fuss about bringing him down. Bile rose and he struggled to get it under control.

Blinking up at the ceiling in despair, he did not notice his company until the cloying mix of scents wafted to his nose. Ozorne, he was certain of it even before he looked. Why he looked, instead of making the Emperor act to gain his attention, Arram would never work out, though the question would prey on his mind, as many ‘what ifs’ do.

“Arram, look at you, fallen so far.” Emerald light coiled in the man’s palm illuminating gilded face in sharp relief. A mockery with his magic so crushed under the weight of suppressor spells. He hung in silence, for what could he say? “Nothing to say? Once you were never at a loss for words, my friend.”

“Friend.” Arram interrupted half laughing, half incredulous, his voice a rasp. Ozorne would call him friend while he ordered him strung up and planned his death like a social function?

“You were,” Ozorne said softly, “before you betrayed me.” Arram had betrayed him? What was the bigger betrayal of their friendship, a refusal to commit murder for a friend or ordering his death? But to disobey the Emperor was high treason, and high treason was death. His thoughts circled dizzily. “Arram, why did you betray me? If you disagreed could you not have done so in private?” Ozorne implored his voice like soothing waters. “When you defied my order before the court you tied my hands, now, now I have so little choice. I, I will have to have you killed.” Ozorne’s voice faltered, he’d never been hesitant over ordering deaths before, Arram noted cynically. Since when had he been cynical? “Arram, please.” The man beseeched. “Please repent. If you repent before the court they will forgive my leniency. Please Arram, you were my friend, be my friend again.”

Arram mused, “Repent?” his gazed drifting back to the ceiling. Ambiguous. He would not have thought so only a week ago. But now. Now he was wiser. Cynical.

“It is the only way I can exempt you from the law. If you publicly repent I will be able to rescind your sentence.” Ozorne sounded so hopeful, so reasonable. Yet Arram could now see past the thin veneer of congeniality.

“Beg.” Arram concluded. “Beg for my life.” It would not be his life. Ozorne would not settle for a mere apology. He would require some kind of forfeit. Or binding. Arram shuddered internally, the thought alone made him nauseous.

“You must,” the Emperor Mage was saying. “Please Arram, do not make me do this.” 

He replied almost gently, though his voice still abraded the sounds. “I have never been able to make you do anything.” For once in his, soon to be very short, life, Arram would stick to a decision. His eyes were back on Ozorne’s face now, and he studied the man’s expression. “Perhaps I would have grovelled, once, but that would not be all you would require, would it.” He stated it, for it could not be anything other than fact. A glint in Ozorne’s eyes confirmed.

“I hope they will be sated by an expression of repentance, but, you are right, they may push me to ask for promises from you.” 

“Only promises.” Arram muttered. “Who are your ‘they’? For ‘they’ are like no Catharki Nobles I have heard of.” Irritation flickered across the Emperor’s face. “And for that matter, Your Imperial Majesty, since when did you cater to the mind of your Court?”

“I have always, my advisors and the nobles of my Court are the ones who give me the authority to make decisions, if I do not abide by the law set by them, I would lose my position.” Yet, the Emperor was a dictator, it had always been so. His nobles might hold small private armies, and wield some limited influence, but they were no threat to Ozorne’s throne. Furthermore the Emperor Mage was far too apt at pitting them against each other for any kind of dangerous alliance to form against his rule.

“You would never let the throne go.” Arram reminded him. “No, only hyenas could drag you off of it.” He was savagely amused that Ozorne visibly flinched at his allusion to the prophecy.

“Arram, you try my patience,” scolded the Emperor, recovering. 

With a sigh that made his ribs ache, although they didn’t feel broken anymore, had he been healed? Arram smiled down at his once friend. “No.” Ozorne frowned. “In answer to your earlier enquiry,” the Black Robe explained.

A cold mask descended upon Ozorne’s face. “There will not be time for you to reconsider, Arram. Please, repent.” The Emperor Mage didn’t sound remotely imploring now.

“No, Ozorne. That is not a feasible option.” While he said it calmly he was trembling, the shivering motion making his chains creak.

“Very well. I am sorry.”

“No, no you are not. And, somehow, neither am I.” Arram looked back up to the ceiling.

His footsteps were already sounding as Ozorne walked away. “You are wrong.” The Emperor’s footsteps faded, but the silence did not last. The eager thud of his tormentor resounded through the corridor. Arram was only very slightly thankful that the dampeners meant magic could not be used to harm him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ozorne would really like a blackmage bound to his will.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not really a long term planner our Arram. That probably comes with age.

It was pitch darkness when he groggily awoke. Eyes closed to the black he left his head hanging forwards and thought desperately. He did not know how long he had left. He did not want to die. More than anything he did not want to die. “Still the coward, Arram?” he asked. With a struggle he drew himself into meditation.

He didn’t want to die.

The thought, plaintive, but loud, stirred him from his rest. And by all the Gods he really didn’t. Ozorne was probably cooking up the most painful, drawn out, violent death he could envision. But how could Arram avoid it? Escape? The idea was almost laughable. Almost.

Could it be done? He felt for his Gift, working against the dampeners was an illusory pain. Sort of, the pain was real, but there was no physical damage induced. It really was a fascinating area of study, there were sensors in all the organs which told the mind of damage inflicted, the magic here hijacked these sensors telling them that damage was occurring when really there was none! The origins were from ancient Cathark. Arram had read the faded words himself he… was distracting himself. Arram cleared his head of old words and focused on his Gift.

Panting he pushed again. And again. Sweat broke out over him. With a frustrated snarl he broke off having achieved nothing but a headache. If he could just -

Oh.

Pins. He glanced down, pointless in the dark, at his waist. He often had a few sturdy pins on him for making his robe sit right. But how to get them to his hands. Sweat, at the prospect of the acrobatics he was considering, ran down his back making him shiver. Still, weighed against death? Well worth it.

After several long minutes of scrounging up courage Arram sighed. “Hag’s bones. Fine, three, two, one,” he braced then hesitated. Fool, “now.” With a whimper he pulled his hands down to his waist, except it was more pulling his waist up to his hands. 

Once he hung the burn in his arms aching in new and exciting ways. He fumbled his fingers into his belt. Letting out many a pitiful noise he pulled the bit of metal from his clothes. Fiddling with it he thanked the Trickster for his obsession with sleight of hand, which had led him to lock picking, a rather aberrant pastime for a mage. 

Suddenly the lock clicked free sending him swinging blindly into the wall. With a half smothered yelp he swung back, clutching his remaining chain with his free hand. He’d lost the pin! Panic choked him as he slowly swung to a halt. Tears spilled hot from his eyes and he cursed every god he could think of.

Eventually he calmed. Long lists had that effect on him. Resetting his weight onto his strained wrist – the manacle had broken through skin when he has swung and fresh blood ran down his arm. He patted himself down praying to all the Gods he’d previously cursed that he’d find something, anything of use. Finding nothing Arram started the search again, still listing off names, what more could he do? But nothing came of it. The tears threatened to well up again, but he was twenty-one, on death row sure, but an adult, there would be no more crying.

Reaching out his hand hit the now empty chain. He stilled, not daring to hope. Carefully he slid his fingers to the locking mechanism. There, waiting for him, was a little spike of metal. Those accursed tears filled his eyes. Firmly blinking them back Arram unlocked the remaining manacle. It opened with a soft click, he sobbed and tucking the pin into a pocket he released the chain.

Landing hurt, and he stumbled, legs numb. Flexing them he gave a little choked laugh. Hysteria bubbling in his chest.

Blindly now he fumbled forwards. The door would be more difficult, it would be spelled against lock picking. In fact doing so would alert the guards, Arram allowed himself an incredibly smug moment that he’d studied the wards on the palace dungeons. It was a good moment. Not that he’d ever predicted that he’d need to apply the knowledge in a practical situation. Still, the door was a problem. Standing before it he meditated, trying to summon some helpful scrap of knowledge. Nothing, not unless he could access his Gift.

Which would involve overpowering the combined interwoven Gifts of a dozen Catharki Masters.

Determined to at least try, Arram focused and sunk into himself. He struggled resolutely to grasp his magic and pull it to from the dampeners influence. He surfaced gasping, sweat in his eyes. Maybe if he tried to work around it? Whispering an unlocking spell Arram lurched as his Gift surged to obey and struck the dampeners. He swayed feeling sick. But this had to work, there was no other way. Sweat dripped into his bleeding lashes making them sting on top of their dull throbbing. He tried again.

Head throbbing now as well, Arram surfaced his balance gone. Bracing himself on the door, his mind stopped working as under his weight it swung slowly, silently open. That man, that horrid scum of a man, the one who’d beaten him and broken his ribs when he’d first come in, the one who’d lashed him until he’d passed out, that loathsome creature, had forgotten to lock the door. His hysteria boiled over making him give a choked sob before he bore down on the emotion.

Quite footed he slid out and eased the cell door closed behind him. His Gift swirled within him free of the dampeners. With a maniacal grin Arram left a present. A time-delayed unlocking spell. He powered it across all the cells. In a few hours they’d have more than Arram to worry about.

Swiftly he made his way towards the dim light at the end of the corridor. Peering around the corner he saw a cluster of guards slouched against the walls. For an instant he hoped they were asleep, but suddenly one of them walked across to another, and they stood chatting. Arram stared in despair. Maybe, if he was careful. But his gift really wasn’t suited to subtlety. He sucked in his lower lip to chew on as he thought. Perhaps, he whispered a word.

Abruptly the three guards began clawing at their faces. Then without a sound they crumpled to the ground. Arram released the three vacuums of air. The softest scrape of armour reached him as their bodies finished settling.

He felt sick. Not nausea in his head, but right to his bones. His heart thudded accusingly in his chest. Oh, Gods. Oh Gods what had he done? He began to rush over, but slowed to a stop looking across at them. There was no glow of life. He’d killed them.

He could have just walked past under an invisibility spell! He moaned his horror.

He turned to the wall and retched. For a full minute Arram stared at the stone work. Then he shook himself, he had to escape or else none of this would be worth it. He fastened the bodies in upright positions against their walls. Trying very hard not to think on it, Arram continued his way out. The next set of guards was noisier and they had a mage with them, Arram could see his purple aura. Feeling numb he cast a dampening charm on the heels of the four vacuums. These people died just as fast. He didn’t feel nauseous now, as he forced the bodies to stand upright. Then he realised he was looking into the face of Hajit of Apal. 

They’d been friends and he’d killed him.

Shoving the dizziness away Arram stumbled onwards.

They’d been friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're now a murderer Arram, exactly what you wanted to avoid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a boat!

Hours later he sat huddled in the bowels of a ship, a stolen cat’s eye kept him undetectable to sight and a black opal the size of his knuckle hid him from Sight. Conveniently the opal would also siphon off any of his Gift that left his skin, making it that much harder to mages to track him down. There were plenty of ships sailing on the tide a few hours before dawn, so it was now up to the Gods if he ever left Cathark.

He didn’t know where this ship was headed, it had been far too dark to see what flag lay slack against the mast, but from the style and cargo he knew it was not Catharki and was exporting. Perhaps he’d end up back in Tyra. A shudder raked him at the thought. While he would, should he amended, be able to pass as a local there, he did not want to run into any relations. He didn’t have a good relationship with them, a non-existent one really. First it had been his Gift, uncontrollable, explosive and expensive. Then it had been the University, how he didn’t seem to have learnt anything, then how he spoke like he was above them. If it hadn’t been one thing, it was another. They had never quite see eye to eye, he’d struggled to understand them. Their single-minded unimaginative devotion to the family business. Why they had seen Teod as the better son when the boy, man now, hadn’t an original thought in his head. In their turn they’d also tried, but they had never seemed to grasp that there was more to life than the price of cloth in Tyra.

Arram lent back against the boxes in his safe niche of cargo. If he escaped, and he was trying desperately to be optimistic, because the alterative was the Black Gods Option before Ozorne could get his hands on him. If he escaped, he’d need to stay undetected. He should change his name. And he’d have to keep up masking spells to hide him from scrying and other forms of Sight. The opal should help anchor those, as well as removing the magic that leaked off him naturally. But he’d have to be very, very careful. It might not be worth the risk to use any other magic, that would only weaken his masking and make it easier for Ozorne to find him. And he’d do anything for that never to happen.

Again he sent his thanks to every God he could think of, and considering the vast array of obscure books and scrolls that he had read over the years, it was an immense list. When his praises were finally done he settled to meditate, this could be a very long journey.

It was. 

Three weeks after setting out, a mostly starved Black Robe, who happened to also be a very much wanted fugitive, crept onshore. The stolen food he’d brought on ship had run out after the first week. He’d stolen what ship rations he dared, but he hadn’t dared much, and raw rat was distasteful, if easily cleaned up by its surviving shipmates. Water he had had to steal far more regularly, it was a godsent that it had occurred to him to acquire a waterskin before reaching the docks. However, as things stood food was his first priority. He had a purse of Catharki coins, which may or may not help, that would depend on where they were. Some port towns would accept a variety of currency, hopefully this, wherever this was, was one of them.

He found an abandoned stale loaf, well half loaf, after only an hour of searching. He was so hungry he didn’t even feel humiliated by rooting through people’s waste. 

With something in his stomach his trembling became far more pronounced. On solid land once more he could hardly believe that he’d truly escaped Ozorne, this was surely just another trick. Any moment now they surround him and drag him back to the palace. As he thought it his shakes became more violent and Arram pressed his frame into the alley wall in a pathetic attempt to hide himself.

Gods, what would he do? The heady discombobulating panic set in again. This time he pushed it down, swallowing on his dry throat as if the physical motion would help. Food, water, shelter. Those were the things he would need. Water should be easy enough, he’d passed wells, even a small fountain during his night raid. But food and shelter were problems. Any decent quality or quantity would cost him, and with little potential money to spare, he’d need to find some kind of income.

Earn money, it seemed ludicrous. The University had provided board and wages, however scant, for those mages dedicated to it, mages like him. He’d written many a treatise and thesis for their benefit, all signed Arram Draper of the Univerity of Cathark.

He’d have to change his name. Thankfully this was one topic he’d been able to conclude on while aboard ship. Numair Salmalín was not only far removed from his birth name, but it suited a Black Robe much better. Not that he’d ever be able to use it as a Black Robe, but he’d always meant to change his name. Circumstances, it would seem, had merely pushed him to finally do it.

So it was Numair Salmalín of nowhere important thank you, not Arram Draper of Cathark who stooped out of a dark alleyway one Tortallian night. He was, Numair very soon discovered, in Port Legann, a prosperous trading city in Tortall, Cathark’s odd northern neighbour. It would be a good place to disappear, if only he was less conspicuous. 

As dawn arose Arram, Numair, he corrected mentally, found himself a seat on the rim of a little fount to watch. He absently threw pebbles into the water, the bigger rocks he left in his lap. The laughter of children broke his reverie. He glanced up, startled, and fumbled the pattern almost dropping the rocks he’d been juggling. His alarmed gaze set on a huddle of grubby urchins staring unabashed at his hands.

A grin lit his face. Purposely now he began tossing the stones again. It was a little awkward as their weights were varied, but he compensated well after a moment. As the children swarmed closer, he stood to let their mothers to the fount and began a more complex routine. When he failed, as he did often, the children scrabbled to get the rock back to him. Some laughed, others mocked.

He began the simpler patterns again as one of the smallest picked up her own rocks and attempted to copy him. Which was entirely sweet. Very quickly the rest caught on and soon Numair the ex-Black Robe was teaching a juggling lesson. What would his Masters think of him? His cheeks hurt from holding his grin and he was sure that it had been years since he’d had this much fun. Who cared what his Masters thought!

He was startled again, proving how on edge he was even as he played, when the children unanimously broke away to swarm around the women folk. He looked on, confused, and still tossing rocks skywards with one hand. The swarm dissipated into the streets and Numair stilled his hands.

“Thank you.” A voice said in accented common. He glanced up from the paving and found the group of woman looking at him. One, a frail looking thing, was smiling easily. “It’s wonderful to have them out of mischief and from underfoot while we work,” she continued.

Still flummoxed, but ever polite Numair replied. “It was a pleasure.”

“Though now my Hans will begin throwing rocks.” A pretty auburn haired woman scowled.

“Generally I’ve used cloth balls weighted with sand.” He explained. “The use of rocks was my improvising.”

“Where are your cloth balls now then? I wouldn’t think a juggler would be without them.” They thought him a Player! Childish glee well up in him. Being a Player was all that he’d dreamed of as a boy. Until his Gift had begun to make itself so violently known.

“They wear out.” He shrugged. In truth they were tucked in his cupboard, or lying about Lindhall’s rooms, back in Cathark.

The women seemed to accept that, and glancing among themselves, the frail-looking one asked. “What kind of fabric will do?” Numair lent back against the wall of the small courtyard.

“Anything that’ll hold the sand at bay. It’s no good if the sand spills through the weave. For looser fabric, making two layers of cloth might improve.”

“Humm, here, would this do.” She was presenting him with a scrap of fabric. Leaning forwards without approaching he inspected it.

“The weave looks tight enough, yes.” She brought out a huge pair of scissors from somewhere in her skirts. Numair blinked at the deadly looking things and decided that she wasn’t nearly as frail as she looked.

“How would you cut it?” Now he blinked at her. Why was she asking him?

“Twelve even pentagons, or six vesica-pisci,” he made the shape in a motion of his fingers, “segments.” The woman nodded putting the lethal blades to work. She made all of the scrap into the almond shaped pieces and, perched on the fount’s rim, she pulled out a tiny sewing kit. The other women watched on as they moved back to their buckets and piles of washing. Numair slowly shifted to sit across from her. He counted seventeen vesica-pisci, one too few if she were to make three juggling balls.

He had a few coloured handkerchiefs that he’d used as wrappings for foodstuffs while smuggling onto the ship. Not really thinking he reached over to her and pulled a bright blue one from her ear. She laughed, her friends giggling, and nodded when he reached for the scissors with an enquiring look. He cut a vesica-piscis from the linin and picked up five pieces of the undyed hemp. Also taking needle and thread he ignored the giggling women and set to work. He was the son of fabric merchants! He knew at least the basics of handling cloth. It was one of the few practical things he had picked up in his life time.

Which was entirely disheartening. What was the point of all his studies for his Black Robe if he knew nothing pragmatic, nothing which would enable his survival outside of a library? There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Without his Gift he was nothing.

Arram had spent too long being a coward. Hiding his true worthlessness with fancy words and weighty tomes. When it came to the apogee, however, he fell short. Take his Gift from him and all that was left was a flaccid poltroon. But Numair was a better person, he knew it was insane to differentiate between the names, but that wouldn’t stop him. Numair was a survivor, he’d make this work. Numair was someone who could not only escape Ozorne, but also stay concealed.

He’d never go back.

Not ever. 

Numair bent his head back to making the tiny stitches. 

When he had finished the once frail looking woman, had smirked and ordered him to keep the ball he’d stitched. He’d had to defend himself, saying pitifully, that while sewing may be women’s work, a man without a woman had to do the work of both sexes. They’d liked that and proceeded to give him laundry tips and praise his neat stitching. 

When the children had swarmed back in he’d resumed the lesson and been gifted a basic lunch for his efforts. As the day darkened he had found an uninhabited shelter and smiled. The people here were kind, he might make that childhood dream and become a Player. With the smile on his face he drifted off into dreams filled with faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look he's juggling! And flirting, just a little 'cause he's still a touch (read: extremely) paranoid.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's caught!

It was difficult. A month had gone by in Port Legann and he was always hungry. Paranoia had led him to shift his sleeping place at least once a week, and he couldn’t sleep through the night unless he meditated for over an hour, and his juggling only pulled a little money, and he was sure he’d seen a face he knew from the palace yesterday. Which was why he’d cut his routine short and moved base again, and why he hadn’t dared to move from his hole today. 

Oh and winter was due in a month, he hated winter. After ten years of the Cathark version he wasn’t sure he’d be able to endure it this far north, not that Port Legann was far north. It was simply further than he’d like. He had even considered migrating south, before dismissing the idea as, if not suicidal, then adverse to his peace of mind.

So, cowering in the grimy shadows of his latest hidey-hole, Numair hunched, clutching the smudged black opal on its long chain and praying to his comprehensive list of gods that he wouldn’t be found. The grime was an unfortunate by product of being poor. He was trying to put aside a fraction of his income towards things other than food, but food was such a hardship already that he had had to deplete the fund so he wouldn’t starve. Winter was going to hurt.

Oftentimes now Numair disliked being proven right. Being perpetually cold was hideously unpleasant. His warmest garment was a horse-blanket worn with his head poked through the centre. That had been a gift from some elderly woman, he’d just stuttered at her when her serving man had handed the bundle to him. Unable to refuse, for he had so desperately needed the warmth, Numair had fixed both of their faces in his mind. One day, one day he’d repay these people.

Three days after the generosity of midwinter things took a turn for the worse. His performing had not gone unnoticed by the organised crime of the area. Of course, Numair hadn’t known that such actions required permission from the local Rogue. This was why he now knelt bruised and bleeding before the court of said crime lord. He was being told about how he had upset the sharp eyed man with his blatant disregard for the guidelines of the Tricksters people. Numair found it difficult to care while he knelt there praying that none of the eighteen vari-powered mages in the room were Catharki.

One of them had a purple aura. It was only a few shades lighter than Hajit’s, the first mage he’d killed. Bile rose.

“So, Master Juggler, why have you defied the laws of this esteemed court?” Mocked the leader, Numair was fairly sure a name had been given, Gillian of something, maybe.

“Ignorance,” he answered quite honestly. Who knew that Tortallian crime worked like the legal fiefs of the country? Not that any percentage tax on his income would benefit this organisation. There were titters at his blasé delivery.

“Indeed?” The man made a lazy gesture and Numair’s head was jerked back, his coarse hair, now longer than ever, made a good grip for the thug. Now forced to look up his eyes swept the crowd for familiar faces.

“Yes,” none of those in his line of sight were at all familiar, “unfortunately my knowledge of tax laws is incredibly limited.” There was a minor, very minor, diversion enchantment on the chain of the opal done in the raka style, so they hadn’t found that yet. He hadn’t been able to put the spells on the opal itself, but it hung beneath his shirt and was always out of sight. They had taken all his earnings however, and the cat’s eye he kept with the purse. A mage would recognise that for what it was. He could pray all he liked, but this was discovery. 

Numair knew that there were rewards for his arrest. He could only hope that the description was outdated. After all, his street finished appearance lent him an air, perhaps odour, or pungency, would be more accurate, of scum that he had never achieved at any point during his time in Cathark. A mage with rust coloured – dried blood, he flinched – Gift approached the side of the Rogue Lord and murmured.

The intelligent eyes of the crime lord never left his kneeling form. The mage stood back and for a moment, the enthroned man gave a whooshing sigh. “Very well, we are adjourned.” His court swiftly dissipated leaving a few stragglers who approached the lord quickly with whatever they had to say. All too soon he was the last to face the dais. His aggressor was shooed off. The mage dropped Numair’s purse on the wide arm of the throne and moved to hang in a doorway. “You are a mage.” The lord frowned down at him. “Stand, answer,” he instructed.

With a little effort Numair stood, swaying a bit, he might have a minor concussion. “I can use the cat-eye stone, yeah.” He admitted, sinking into his mind. It would be best to stick to truth with that mage watching, but there were plenty of non-magic means to get lies and half-truths past eye-bright and truth spells.

“Your Gift is small then? Why do you not use it in your little shows?”

“My Gift is useless,” bitterness flowed into Numair’s tone. That got a raised eyebrow. “I never wanted it anyway, I wanted to join the Players.” He shrugged dejectedly. “But, I had obligations. And now, they don’t take in people my age.”

“Obligations?” The, he was mostly sure now the man’s name was Gillian, Rogue pried.

Numair hesitated wondering how much he should tell, and how much could he infer. “Merchant family. My younger brother was more… suited, than me.” Succinct and truthful, so the mage with his pocket of eyebright could give his crime lord another nod.

“Not Tortallian though.” Gillian seemed to muse.

“No.” Numair agreed.

Seeming to accept his story the crime lord picked up the purse weighing it in hand. A flicker of something, and the older man tossed it across. Numair deftly caught it. “My people say you haven’t resorted to stealing yet.”

“It has crossed my mind.” Numair admitted, somehow not even feeling guilty. Those sharp eyes wanted a reason why. He frowned then smiled. “I’m not a child anymore. They might take a hand, then I wouldn’t even be able to earn money with juggling.” The lord looked like he was going to express the alternative. “And begging with a severed limb would be boring.” As if to emphasise his point he had a copper flitting across his fingers.

“Go, juggler. Should my people ever call on you, however, you’d do well to give them my cut.” Numair inclined his head and fled. 

Gillian’s people did come, about once a month. They typically took only a few coppers each time. Some were polite about it, others almost pitying the starving juggler, but a minority were violently inclined. Those ones would take most or all of a day’s earnings. And Numair, he didn’t have the heart to stop them. Not when the Rogue’s infrequent watchers set his neck prickling and heart thudding in fear of Ozorne’s spies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But it was only the Rouge and what do they care about an out on the heels street performer?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it paranoia when they really are out to get you?

By midsummer Numair had explored the entire city. He knew where the cheapest bread could be bought, where the crowds would be most generous and where there were the best swarms of children to lift his mood. He had also learnt which places to avoid, which people to give way to and who looked out of place. Of course those out-of-place people were travellers, foreign merchants and their crew, or the more-wealthy-than-him coming to the city to visit family. 

It was early July and he had been out on Harbour Way having added brightly coloured cloths which he made disappear, or appear from children’s ears, to his routine. He’d been feeling uneasy and so had been keeping an eye on the crowd. The problem, which he had discovered in the long months he had been acting the Player, was that by performing he was the centre of attention and it was difficult to determine who was watching him for Ozorne – and annoyingly for Gillian, the crime lord had not fully bought his tale – and who watched him for entertainment. But most times the crowds’ eyes didn’t send shivers up his spine and make the lacerations’ scars tingle painfully. 

Finding no suspicious persons in his audience Numair calmed himself and continued. Still the feeling persisted even as he packed up and scurried through the warren of lower streets to the bakery that sold its day old bread at acceptably low prices. The niggling was frustrating more than anything, so instead of heading to his current niche, Numair walked down to the bustling docks. He had gotten used to the Emerald Ocean’s constant noise and brine. It was now a comfort.

As he hadn’t been attending, it came as a heart stopping jolt to realise he’d been recognising faces, and not from the Port, from hom- Cathark. Knowing he was pale under his scraggly beard he steadied his breathing – he could breathe, he’d be fine, he’d changed, they wouldn’t have recognised him – and turned as if to approach the water. Watching them, and none were looking his way, he saw a face from today’s crowd making a beeline to the cluster of Catharkis. Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith. He couldn’t let them leave. One of the cluster was a reasonably powerful mage, if he got a message out! 

Numair felt cold, if it was because of the actions he was deciding on, or the prospect of being back under the Emperor Mage’s thumb, he couldn’t tell. They were exclaiming in Thak, discussing him. Dread filled him.

He stared at the harbour, what in all the Realms was he considering? He looked back to the group, surely there was another way? While he recognised several of their faces, he’d never spoken to any of them. How could he predict what they’d do? They were agreeing to some course of action now and splitting in to two groups, the larger retreated to the only Catharki style ship in the harbour, the other started to move into the city. Numair made sure to fix their faces into his mind – a move he knew he’d regret if he was the one to survive this. 

Fishing in his purse the cats-eye brushed his fingers. It was late evening, so the docks were still swarming. Numair slid into the shadows under the dock. He closed his eyes and prayed for luck. Then stepping onto the dock he squeezed the cat-eye stone. And vanished. Moving quickly and carefully avoiding collisions he boarded the Catharki ship. The mage was in the main cabin, only two others were with him. Numair gulped and paid attention.

The mage had not sent anything yet, it would seem he feared that should they promise to, but fail to deliver Arram, that Ozorne would harm the messenger, so to speak. It sounded like the Ozorne his friend had become. He’d probably feed them to crocodiles. That made him feel slightly better. His plan to kill them wouldn’t be near so violent as crocodiles. No, all he did was pour their stock of poisons, mostly vials of Strychnine seed extract, into the open jug of heady Catharki wine. The aromatic wine would cover much of the bitter taste.

Numair backed off and watched as the shortest man came over to pour out cups from the jug. “To our fortunes!” The man exclaimed and they all threw back a glass and went for more. They hadn’t noticed that the vials were empty or that there was a knife missing. 

Once off the boat he wove through the crowd and into the maze of the Dockyards district, he stopped in an alley and pressed his head against the wall of an alley where Dockyards bled into the Slickwater district. He hated Ozorne, how dare he make him resort to such methods. His anger waned as quickly as it had waxed. If he’d bothered to think it through he surely could have come up with a way of silencing them without murder. He could have run. Just run. It was so tempting, but they were searching for him now.

Numair summoned the stillness of mind he needed to see this through. All or nothing. If they caught him he’d be far worse than dead. If Ozorne hadn’t planned an agonising death for him before, he would have certainly spent enough time plotting to be most creative by now. So, resolved Numair brought those four faces to the fore of his mind. Now they would see who was more desperate.

As he walked the darkening streets the Black Robe considered what he knew of human anatomy. He’d never dreamed to apply it in such a manner. In fact he’d studied it in a fit of pique that his Gift couldn’t heal. The irony was bitter on his tongue, but his mind was cold to the spasms across his heart. The knife was warming in his hand, hidden in the folds of his shirt which hung off his frame.

He saw one of them, upturned nose, full mouth, dark skin marred only by crinkles around his dark eyes. He had not seen Numair. Walking into a side alley he knew he’d caught the man’s attention. Numair didn’t glance back to confirm if he followed, but darted onwards and then doubled back gripping the cats-eye in his off hand. There was no one else in the narrow-way, no witnesses to his sin. The man bled at his feet, Numair hadn’t given him a chance. Pulling on him he concealed the body behind bins in the alley one over.

One down.

Breathing through his nose as his coldness wavered he began the prowl again. Both hunter and hunted.

“We’ve dealt with two others.” The voice came from a darkened niche at his elbow. He froze and almost whirled to stab wildly with his little blade. But he recognised Gillian’s mellow tones.

“Please, please refrain from startling me when I’m so tense,” and holding a knife.

A slice of a smile pulled the man’s face. “You wouldn’t have been able to scratch me.” The Rogue lord assured him.

“Exactly.” He huffed in glorious air. “I really don’t want to be killed by you or your bodyguards, I enjoy living, so please don’t do that to me.” Gillian laughed softly.

“You barely twitched towards me.” Gillian walked off down the way.

Numair fell into step a half stride behind him. “Mostly because my heart had died of fright and I was busy coxing it back to life.”

Gillian laughed again. “However, Master Juggler, I did not find you to frighten you. I want to know why these foreigners running about my city trying to kill Players.” They were killing the other performers? Numair tried to formulate an appropriate answer around his nausea. “And I want to know now.” He didn’t bother to ask why Gillian thought he would know, the crime lord had never quite believed his, not wholly fake, past.

“I mightn’t have mentioned that I didn’t part from my family on the best of terms.” Gillian’s thugs were following at a sensible distance. Close enough to kill Numair should he try anything, far enough to not be a real part of the conversation.

“No. But they’d not send mercenary types after you.” Mercenaries, truly, he’d thought them ambitious Catharkis. With a shelf of poisons? Oh. Gods he could be naïve. Numair prayed it was simple luck that they had found him. Gillian was watching him closely. “You didn’t know.” Numair could only shake his head. Hopefully they just chanced upon him, mayhap they hadn’t a clue where he was until that one had spotted him entertaining. “But they are looking for you.” He nodded stiffly. “How many.”

“Should only be one left.”

“It was only a three man team? That’s aw-.” Numair was shaking his head. He swallowed thickly.

“Nine man.” He murmured. The Thief Lord raised a brow at Numair.

“We only killed two.” He pressed.

Numair had been trying very hard not to think about how badly his evening had gone so far. “They kept a number of toxins on the shelf across from their drinks.” He explained quietly.

“I was right to keep an eye on you.” Numair glared, it had not been good for his nerves. Ignoring him Gillian gestured one of the thugs forward. “Have ours check the docks for six dead mercs.”

“Five.” Numair corrected. That warranted another explanation. “The sixth is behind the bins on Midden Way.” The men all looked at him with something in their gaze that wasn’t respect, but alike to it.

“Five then,” Gillian corrected his order. “Be sure of that number. I don’t want my city plagued by murderous foreigners.” Gillian received an agreement, and the man vanished down the nearest turnoff. “Right then, one more to round it off and then we can get to the core of the matter.” Numair’s heart sank. Running would have been the best option, damn retrospect. 

Numair glanced back up and there staring back at him was the moustached Catharki. Gilian must have seen it in his face, for the thief lord whipped around. That clued the mercenary in, and the dark skinned man rushed off.

Gillian and his people gave chase. Numair didn’t think, he stooped to grab a loose cobble. Testing the weight almost subconsciously he threw it into the air. Several seconds later the shaped stone split the mercenary’s skull. He was dead instantly, Numair hoped. Grinding to a halt, the thief lord turned to regard him. His people, and the bystanders were not so collected. As Gillian walked back over, letting others deal with the body. In a daze Numair could only think that all this juggling had vastly improved his hand-eye coordination.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His Imperial Majesty?

Later that night Numair was sitting in a side room of the Court of the Port Legann Rogue (supposedly there was a King Rogue up in Corus, Tortall’s capital) absently staring into a cup of wine. Gillian had just entered and was watching him. Numair found that he didn’t care.

“Is this the first time you’ve killed people?” The question was almost cautious, but tainted with curiosity. Numair shook his head. “I’m not sure if I’m surprised. I thought not earlier, but then you’ve barely said a word since we got you here.” The Rogue came around to sit in the chair opposite him. “We found four bodies on their ship,” he continued pouring his own wine.

The icy spike of fear made his head snap up. Wine sloshed over his hands. Gillian met his gaze coolly, “He’ll die. Just slower than the others. He’s barely coherent now. We couldn’t get much out of him.” That was a leading statement, but it wasn’t what concerned Numair.

Stuttering to frame the question Numair asked. “Which, who, what does he look like?” Gillian seemed unperturbed that Numair wasn’t taking the bait.

“Darker skinned, dark eyed, short cropped hair, goatee, hooked nose,” Numair stiffened that was the mage. Gillian stopped his description. “You know him?” He shook his head.

“How sick is he?” If he hadn’t as much of the poison he might of gotten a message off, if not to Cathark, then at least to other bounty hunters, purely out of spite, but there was also the possibility that he had drunk the same as those already dead, and that his magic was delaying his death. If the second was the case then he’d have reached an onset of symptoms non-conducive to magical communications just as quickly as the others.

“Why? Do you plan to visit him? I’m not sure he’d want to see ya.” Numair frowned and didn’t reply. “No to the visiting then? Fine, I was teasing lad.” Numair blinked, lad? He was twenty two. “Still, if you’re wanting information, you’d best give up some of your own.” Gillian’s mouth set into a firm line.

“That was the mage of the group.” There were tolerable reasons why he might have known, or worked that out, aside from the innate being able to see magic, which he wasn’t sharing. “Depending on how sick he was, he may, or may not have sent home a message.” To his home or Arram’s, who’s to say?

“Ah, that we did get, he didn’t send any messages. And by the time we got to asking his business all he’d do was rave about some fugitive.” Sharp eyes fixed on Numair’s face. “That wouldnah be you, right Juggler?”

Numair was at a crossroads. He didn’t come to them often, but when he did he disliked how they required so much thought in so little time. Gillian had been good to him. Sure he’d taken Numair’s scant earnings on an all too regular basis, but he’d also given Numair’s name to the bakers he subsidised, so that when there was nothing left Numair wouldn’t starve for long. His thugs were more often discourteous brutes, but his healers were the opposite and available to all those who paid the thief’s tithe. What’s more Numair had been allowed to perform in whatever part of the city he pleased, unrestricted like many of the entertainers under the crime lord were. So he couldn’t lie to the man, even when that was the more sensible option.

“Let me go.” Gillian blinked up at him as he stood. “If you’ve heard that much, then you and everyone in hearing distance has heard my old name. So I’ll leave, before you or one of yours gets it into their head that I would go meekly back to his Imperial Majesty.” Now the Rogue looked startled, or simply less collected, which counted.

“His Imperial Majesty?”

“Yes. The one who gets over-possessive of people. The one who isn’t likely to forget my escape for many decades. The one who wants to do to me what he did to his last heir. That Imperial Majesty.” Numair bit out.

Gillian sat back. “Huh, well good. The only agreement I’ve got over fugitives is with King Jon. So you’re free to go, yeah. Had me worried there, Juggler. I didnah want to drag you before the guard. Bad business that.” Gillian moved ahead of him to the door and shooed the thugs around it away. “You’d best head off quick like. I imagine the news will circle faster ‘en a quickfinger runs.

Numair nodded but paused before turning, why by all the Gods was Gillian helping him? He was worth, well he didn’t rightly know, but a lot. The crime lord saw his expression and gave sigh, walking to the exit. “There was always something about you Numair.” That had to be the first time Gillian had used his name, it felt strangely like goodbye. “Tell me, if I ordered my people to snatch you, what would happen?” Numair only turned his head to meet the shorter man’s eyes. “Exactly. So go, leave my city before you are forced to show us in what manner your Gift is useless.” Numair blushed at the hidden accusation.

“It’s a matter of perspective. It isn’t very practical. I can’t even light a candle.” The crime lord looked first doubtful and then dumbfounded.

“There always was something about you, Juggler.” He repeated sounding astonished and, slowly but ever more so, amused. With a last bemused look, Numair fled into the night. He was out of the city by dawn a pack full of supplies slung over his back. Gillian had had it meet him at his latest nest. Like that elderly woman and her servant, one day, he would repay Gillian too.


	8. Chapter 8

He travelled, village hopping, for weeks and weeks, he was well done by. Providing a night or two of entertainment and passing along news bought him board at most inns, and if not board than a meal. Then atop that he often got something for the way. Also, they’d occasionally throw in a bath – often second hand, but he wasn’t going to turn his nose up – with real soap. A joy, especially as the weather sank deeper into autumn and streams cooled to a similar temperature as the Emerald Ocean, which kept a consistent bone chilling temperature year round as far as he could tell.

He’d taken the Coast Road north, towards Port Caynn and Corus rather than the Port Road towards Persopolis. He knew better than to think that the desert way would be kinder, not only were settlements far less frequent, but water would be a huge problem and deserts got far too cold at night for his tastes. Furthermore, the Bazhir Shamen were, according to some rather abstract records, often able to sense magic. Not that he thought they’d have any interest in what the Catharki Emperor wanted, but there was always the chance, and he didn’t dare risk it. Especially when it would be the colder route.

He was mid Juggle when the simplest plan occurred to him. The ball he’d dropped bounced off a foot and was back into position. The City of the Gods, Tortall’s centre of magical learning. The City had soaked up so much magic over the years, or perhaps it was innately magical, which would be interesting in its self, very few places in the known world that had strong innate magic. The Roof of the World had one or two, and there was an oasis valley south and west of Cathark, the Gideroae Scrolls referenced an island in a great lake too, though the island had never been found. A second ball slipped his grasp forcing him to put his distraction aside. 

Later that evening he lay on the too short bed and returned to his thoughts. The City’s magical aura had bled into the very bedrock and, supposedly because it was continuously fed by the actions of the mages that lived in the City, but that was difficult to say one way or another. Numair had read a very interesting dissertation arguing that the City of the Gods was actually a wellspring of magic and that the mages had no influence on the spreading aura. There was little proof either way. Yet the aura itself caused the most useful effect on detection magic, for him at least. He imagined it was most inconvenient for spying on a rival mage’s project. Still, being under the aura would protect him from scrying no matter what magic he used!

Of course, he first would have to reach that far north. He shuddered at the thought and tucked himself more firmly under his covers. Then there would be the problem of avoiding the notice of the sure to be plentiful number of mages also idling around the City. He grinned, the expression taking away stress lines and in the darkness he looked his age for the first instant in a long while.

He had a plan. It wasn’t perfect, and was sure to come with many ruts and potholes, but it was a viable long term option. Ozorne would never be able to scry him out under that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A plan!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short

His contented state lasted almost a solid week. Numair had woken well rested for once, which had bolstered his mood to an obnoxiously cheerful isn’t-it-good-to-be-alive humour. Then the very moment he stepped outside it hit him. The University of Cathark often had mages toing and froing from the City of the Gods.

Suddenly the weight of the world was on his shoulders again. He’d be discovered for sure, someone would recognise him. Maybe not in the first month, or even in the first year, but eventually he would be found out. Then his Imperial Majesty would courteously ask his Dear Cousin King Jon to please hand over his stray mage. Even if Jonathan of Tortall wanted to keep Numair for his own use, Cathark’s massive armies would firmly dissuade him of that notion. 

It wasn’t like he could move under the shield and not go to the City of the Gods. It was the only city of any size near what he could get lost in. He couldn’t stay camped out in the middle of nowhere either, Numair didn’t know nearly enough about the wilderness to survive even a single winter. And that would be far too cold.

Depressed he trudged out of the bustling village of Pirates Swoop and northwards again, disheartened and horribly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No George, maybe on a rewrite


	10. Chapter 10

Port Caynn was as busy as Port Legann, if not more so. This time he did things right straight off. He found the court of the local Rogue in the Gauntlet district and waited for an audience. Everything was well enough, he had his permission to busk where he pleased, but as he had introduced himself and made his petition, there had been something in the Crime Lord’s eye. Numair shook himself of the impression, if it had been there or not there wasn’t much he could do for it.

As he walked the streets searching for a place to den, it occurred to him that he’d been in Tortall for over a year now. Ozorne must have been utterly furious on the anniversary of his escape, Numair hadn’t noted the date at the time, he’d probably been studying the clouds or bird watching or tramping miserably through the rain. The though made him smile even while he quaked inside.

Over a year. He wondered if they – Lindhall, Varice, Kilma, Glinjtio Hadorn and the rest, even Davo’t – missed him, if they thought him dead, if they too woke from nightmares that Ozorne had dragged one of his friends into the dungeons to replace him, if they hated him. He’d missed them. He missed much from Arram’s life. Not just the material things, and he surely missed those, but mostly he missed the companionship. He had no one here. 

While there had always been some unspoken discrepancy between his friends. They’d been close, he’d been able to talk to them about magic and science and wonder. On occasion he’d talked to them about life, and they him, but mostly they had been a steady support for him in the nastier aspects of the University. He hoped they’d thought the same of him. He doubted it. Arram could never have been called steadfast.

And Varice, sweet Varice. He’d seldom cleaned up well enough to charm a woman in the past year, when he had, Varice hadn’t occurred to him. He hoped that she’d moved on as well. Probably, she wasn’t one to hang onto the past.

Lindhall was however. He was Tortallian by birth, Numair recalled, northern he was sure of. Lindhall, like the Emperor (and this was the limit of their similarities), had an aviary, his was filled with drab plumaged northern birds, not the bright flashy southern ones. It was a very accurate expression of his nature, Lindhall missed the North of his homeland. Numair had never understood why Lindhall remained in Cathark when his longing was so clear. Still, it gave Numair comfort to know that Lindhall at least would remember him.


	11. Found You

Mid-winter passed with little excitement. Numair was grateful, he’d begun to fear that his life events would cycle by the solstices. Instead it was in the days before Beltane, the coastal weather warming with spring storms. 

Numair had been ignoring the eyes of the Rogue – not the ratty man’s real eyes, but the ones that saw all and reported back to him – as he had done all winter. He’d never be certain why he had chosen that minute to pause his show and fade into the wall watching his inattentive audience and the mixing bustle. He was glad he had. On an alley shooting of Findler Lane were several thugs he recognised from Port Legann.

They were probably just visiting family. Or, Gillian had sent them to beat up someone here. 

He quickly snapped his eyes back to his gear. His life in an undyed sack. He was over reacting, they wouldn’t be here for him. He shouldn’t be so self-centred. Numair shook himself and re-engaged the attention of passers-by. It was a bright day, there were plenty of people willing to flick coppers at him, all was well.

That night he was extra cautious in making his way back to a hidey-hole, but nothing happened. He gnawed on his dried fish and old bread. Then trying to sink into meditation he fell into a fitful sleep. Waking he was still a touch uneasy, but the day passed overcast without anything more sinister than drizzle. He laughed at himself that evening – fish and bread again – one would think this life would make him bolder. Stories of anti-hero fugitives and crooked men with codes of honour flicked though his head, then there was him, running scared. 

Beltane followed, bright and flamboyant, and the glut – in his opinion – of income, came. As his Beltane treat he bought himself a hot hearty stew with thick fresh bread and an orange. By all the Gods he’d missed oranges, and mangoes, and watermelons, and… his mouth was watering. Tucking in he watched the joyous crowds amble, dance and pickpocket through the night of celebration.

Finally finished savouring his orange his was stomach bulging. Numair checked his slack purse was well secured to his belt and pushed into the crowds. His bag was where he’d hidden it, all intact. That checked he found himself a busy corner and set back to work for the evening.

He woke late the next day, understandable as he’d gone on and on with his performance late into the wee hours. Getting up with some effort, Numair found most of his usual places were mostly empty of people or occupied by a competing Player. Eventually he found himself dockside, not his favourite. Several times he’d been down here when a brawl had broken out, he’d come away from those bruised or the brawlers had upset his days earnings. So he didn’t much like working down here, for all that there were plenty of attentive children eager to copy him.

A swarm recognised him as soon as he appeared. He knew that it wasn’t just for fun that they were on him like a plague of locusts. Most of them were eyes or ears for the Rogue. They were rewarded for their efforts, Numair grasped that, but it was disconcerting to think of spies that young. Sometimes they’d ask him pointed questions on people about town, or they would grill him trying to pry whatever dirty secrets he’d seen or overheard. Generally he obliged them, it was their secondary source of income after all. The first being pickpocketing, or ‘filcher’ which was some kind of small time crookery.

It was an unrewarding day. It would seem the Tortallians had used up their generosity the day before. Numair hoped it wouldn’t be too long before that sentiment replenished itself. His reserves would only hold out so long. The baker’s assistant gave him an odd look as he came by later, but gave him his usual order with no fuss.

Drifting off to sleep Numair’s mind sunk into a familiar nightmare of the dungeons. It had twisted over time, and he knew it was his doing not Ganiel’s. Kind Ganiel, who would send him dreams of small happiness to break the numbing consistency of the mutating nightmares. Tonight it was not Ozorne who sent him into that place. It was his father white faced with terror induced anger. His mother in tears beside him, overwrought, but still able to spit curses at him. Spit his sister’s name at him. His sister who couldn’t have been there. Who shouldn’t have been there. Her only mistake had being getting too close to him. She stared at him with her dark eyes, silent accusation. She didn’t need to say a thing, her silence cut him, made him want to cut his Gift from his body. Curse it for all the pain it had brought him, brought him and everyone around him. He’d have been happy if it hadn’t been for the accursed thing. 

Teod stepped forwards hate burned in his little brother’s eyes. He’d had the same expression the last time Numair had seen him. The little brother that had always been better than his elder. Always been in control. Been normal. They’d never called Numair it, but he had grown up the freak of the family. Now though in this twisted vision they threw the word at him and it struck eating into his flesh as his father raised glowing green hands and shot emerald fire at him throwing back his head to laugh with Ozorne’s voice. “Found you.”


	12. Chapter 12

Numair woke a gasp that wasn’t a scream only by virtue of his breathlessness. And scrambled to his feet before collapsing to huddle in a rocking ball in the deepest corner of his nook. Gods, he’d thought- Numair stared at the entrance to his cranny. He’d thought that Ozorne had caught him. His voice had been right in his ear. Numair trembled and choked down sobs burying his face in his knees. 

Minutes passed and his heart slowly began to trust that it might have only been a dream. Only a dream. Another tremor shook his frame. Trying to stop them he hugged himself. Numair spent the last few hours to dawn without moving. His eyes ever fixed with dread on the entrance.

Nothing came of it, of course. It was only after dawn when sunlight filtered through the cloud that Numair could convince himself of it however. He felt drained and rather pathetic as he wandered down to find a post for the day. 

Still as the day went on he began to cheer up. Making others laugh had always been a sure way to fix his own mood. It didn’t really matter if he had to play the fool to do so. He packed up early though, it had been another slow day, but he wasn’t worried yet. The Baker man had the same expression from yesterday, maybe Numair was looking worse for wear. It wasn’t like he had any reflective surface other than the water he gathered each morning to drink and wash with.

“Found you!” Numair dropped his meal in horror and was flung into the nearest wall. Head spinning he staggered upright only to be smashed in the gut and struck across the face. His bag was wrenched away tangling his arm and pulling it at an excruciating angle. He’d bitten his tongue, blood was filling his mouth. Numair threw a retaliatory punch sending something clattering and the man – blue eyes, black-brown hair, broken nose – cursed. The others, how many were there, stilled his limbs and the one he’d punched collected what he’d dropped and – Mithros he had a knife, Numair renewed his struggles – thrust it into his side. 

It felt white hot. Some, very small, part of his brain informed him that it could not have been made of solid fire as the nasty man had been holding it with bare flesh. However most of his brain was trying to process the sheer agony of the wound. The horrid man pulled the knife out and spoke to his companions. Numair was sure he spoke Common, but understanding was beyond him. Quite suddenly the man reeled back and punched him in the temple. As blissful unconsciousness overwhelmed him Numair heard a troubling crack.


	13. Chapter 13

“…the gormless looby. ‘Twas easy ‘nough t’ do. Bashed ‘im about a bit an’ ‘e came ‘long easy like.” Someone murmured a reply too quiet for Numair’s spinning mind to catch. “Naw, ‘e didna even getta spark off.” The loud one replied. They were talking about him, the realisation came slowly. Too slowly. His brain was all over fuzzy. All fuzzy. Like mould fuzz on old bread. Kinda spongy, but also fuzzy. Soft looking. “Ah, ‘e’s bin out a while now.” Him, had he? Numair wondered how long he could have been unconscious. While thinking that he concluded that the man truly did have an atrocious grasp of common and it wasn’t the concussion impairing his understanding. “Aye, ‘e were twitchin’ like a fish, ‘e was, Simmer an’ Rojo couldna keep ‘im in ‘and. We patched ‘im up real good though.” 

Numair shifted and suddenly excruciating flares of pain burst from somewhere. A low animalistic whine seeped out his lips. Chairs scraped across rough floor. “He wakes.” The till now unheard voice stated. Footsteps approached him as he bit down on the pain. “Welcome back Arram.” Numair was about to enter a panic attack when his brain, fuzz blown to nothingness by the onslaught of unexpected pain, processed his surroundings. Most importantly, the place he was in was wet and cold like nowhere in Cathark could achieve. His panic subsiding for now he focused on the man looming over him. It wasn’t often people could loom with him, so it was unsettling in its foreignness.

“I’ll sen’ Rojo and Bojorhn in.” The grammatically challenged man stooped out of the small room.

“Now then, allow me to explain things. I have always found it easier to do business when all parties understand there place in proceedings.” This man was wiry and calm. His eyes were set slightly too far apart to be handsome and his mouth had an unpleasant set to it. “I am a business man. You, Arram, are acting the part of the package I am transferring.” The man continued as if imparting a secret. “So you’ll have to be well behaved and well mannered. I don’t want to give any of the brutes I must, unfortunately, employ, to hurt you. I like to give my gifts intact, you see.” He paused his eyes flicking to the arm Numair had tried to push himself up with. “Unfortunately, I was remiss emphasising that you weren’t to be hurt. However, you have been attended to. Your wound has been cleaned and your arm is set. Try your best not to use, bump or otherwise damage it, healer’s orders.” The man finished with cheerful mockery. “Now, young man, no hard feelings, you’re just good business.” The smuggler, Numair couldn’t confirm it, but he suspected that was the man’s profession, smiled at him and walked swiftly out of the room.

Two men, one outrageously bulky and the other fit, walked in to stand guard. Numair eyed them. One of them, which ever was Rojo, had been the one to break his arm. They stared back at him. “When do we leave?” The huge one got a faintly amused look – he wasn’t going to say. “Do I have time to sleep?” The big man, who seemed to have a little more intelligence in his expression, appeared more receptive to the second question.

“Yeah. Sit’ll be a while till we sail.” Numair nodded thanks and carefully reclined again. He didn’t mean to sleep, meditation would suffice for rest, and he wouldn’t be nearly so unguarded. As he tried to get comfortable he took stock. Aside from the broken arm, his dominant, and the stab wound, he had a wealth of bruises. One side of his face throbbed in time with his heart and the eye wouldn’t open quite as far as he was used to. 

As for his things, he hadn’t seen them in the room, and his purse was gone, but his opal had survived once more. As it should, he’d redone the masking spell on the chain with an enchantment of his own making. They wouldn’t find it unless they stripped him.

Fine, but how would he get out without the cats-eye still in his absent purse. He couldn’t even use physical violence with his arm in this condition, and that was if he could bring himself to even move with a hole in his abdomen. Healed or not, it was a constant searing pain that was difficult to distract his mind from. He might have to wait for an opportunity to escape. He didn’t like the thought of that at all, but he couldn’t think of a way to make an opening. Well he could, but not one lasting for the time he would need.

A few short hours later his head ached from trying to concoct a viable plan. Yet, while he’d many ideas, none of them was good enough, or he was missing a crucial aspect, or it required a good deal too much luck. Sense came to him and he finally forced his mind to quiet, meditation might not bring him answers but it would put his mind into the right state so that when the moment came, he would be able to act.

And that moment had to come.


	14. Chapter 14

He didn’t quite fall asleep, though in his doze he dreamt that Hajit came after him with his purple fire. The vision twisted away into the slack faces of the imperial guards. Suddenly their eyes began to move and fixed on him. A new man, they had changed twice, roused him with a rough shake. Even as grateful as he was to be stirred, Numair couldn’t help the hum of pain he made at the motion. “Up.” He was ordered. Their leader and the smuggler came in, the latter holding a few folds of cloth. 

“Arram,” Numair tried not to cringe at the reminder, “here’s a change of clothes. To replace those damaged when we retrieved you.” ‘Retrieved’ sounded far too civilised for the reality. The clothes were passed to him, and he raised a brow when no one moved. The smuggler raised a brow back. Numair hoped his blush was hidden under the bruising. Turning his back to them he tried to change as quickly as possible. A difficult feat with his injuries. When he did eventually turn back he found most of the room giving him very penetrating looks.

He was led out of the room and a sack was placed over his head. Hands moved him and pushed his head down to make him duck obstacles. They were outside, he was sure of it, there was brine in the air. Eventually he was helped onto an unsteady surface. A small boat. Too take him to a larger one? He didn’t know.

“How many lashes was that?” An unfamiliar voice asked to his back. The scars tingled with phantom pains.

“It seemed a little morbid to keep track.” Numair replied after a moment, and truly he had no idea. The man snorted, perhaps in agreement, but Numair was too strained to really work that out. Quite voices murmured and the slosh of water grew louder than just the paddles. A muffled thud as something dropped. He was pulled up and braced. 

“Watch his arm. Rojo thought it a good idea to break it.” His good arm was placed on a rope rung. “Climb, it’s not far.” Struggling to climb with one arm he got part way before hands grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him right onto the deck.

“Thanks.” He murmured. The faint sardonic note obviously transferred out of his hood, for there was a quiet laugh.

“Welcome. Go with Fords now, he’ll take ya below.” Fords took charge of the tense game of leading the blind. Numair breathed though his mouth as they entered some under deck compartment. 

His hood was pulled off. “‘Ome sweet ‘ome.” Mocked Fords. The sea aged man peered at his face. “Really, I expected Cathark’s most wanted to be more, mmm, well certainly less placid.” Numair didn’t feel placid. He felt angry and aching, he felt sick to his marrow and terrified into stillness. And he felt sad. Fords was shaking his head, “Oh well, there’re never what you expect. Now this ‘ere is you. It’s a bit of a way to our ren-dez-vous, so make yeself comfortable.” He backed out.

Numair stared at the tiny cell. Home sweet home, huh. Finding a reasonable pick, Numair unlocked his door and stepped back out. He was out on deck before anyone noticed him. He ignored the call and moved to the edge. He’d been right, this ship was anchored in the dip of a bay off North Gate Road. He could see the immense shadow of the shore and the faint glow of Port Caynn over the rise.

“He won’t get far, lads,” came an authoritative voice. The onrushing horde slowed and came to surround what sides they could. “Fords, next time lock the door, hmm.” Fords spluttered, because of course he had locked it. “Master Arram, what are you doing out of your room? Passengers are not to be about deck, they get under foot.” Numair wasn’t entirely sure, he’d decided that in lieu of a good plan, no plan at all would suffice.

“Apologising, I suppose.” He said, the opal weighed heavy on his chest. His recent trauma had led to more of his Gift surging into his aura, more magic for the stone to mop up. The most obvious plan occurred to him. He smiled, perhaps somewhat madly, and un-clasped the chain. Bringing it around to his front he re-clasped it. “I have no idea where anyone gets the idea that I’d ever go back willingly.” He said, more to himself. 

“Master Arram,” the captain began again asking him politely to go beneath. Numair drew the flaming opal into the night, it blazed with colour as he pushed his will into it. Layered into the spell were the faces of every man aboard. It wouldn’t work for any lesser mage, but with their presence so close he wouldn’t need a Focus for each of them. “Sard! Jochen, you said he wasn’t a mage!” They lurched into motion. Too late.

The spell snapped shut.


	15. Chapter 15

Drained, Numair stumbled as around him the crew slid bonelessly to the deck. The sleep spell would last as long as the opal it was powered by remained within some small distance of them. Vision tinged grey Numair placed the opal’s chain about Fords’ neck taking a moment to check the older man’s pulse – there was always that danger – but it was steady and strong.

Carefully lowering the little paddle boat back into the water Numair clumsily climbed into it and with all the grace of using only one arm manoeuvred his ponderous way to shore. He dragged the boat up into the tree line not bothering to tie it. Numair did not head back to Port Caynn, he couldn’t risk running afoul of the smuggler again. He didn’t have his things anyway, nor did he know where they were. No it would be best to avoid people for a while. Without his opal he would have to spend much of his energy on retaining mental blocks to scrying as well as reigning in his Gift within his skin so that he couldn’t be tracked that way.

Finally, exhausted, he dropped to the forest floor. He’d deal with whatever came next in the morning.

Which turned out to be a curious bear. 

Numair froze when he looked up into its small brown eyes. Quickly his dream muddled mind banished thoughts of triumphant purple fires there were more immediate problems. His mind drew a blank on appropriate behaviour. Lindhall hadn’t briefed him on what to do if faced with one of these creatures, they’d been more concerned with how not to frighten birds while sketching them. Moving slowly he whispered “Hey, there. Please don’t eat me, or maul me, or whatever it is you might do to injured humans you find in the woods.” For whatever reason the bear backed off with a low groaning noise. What he wouldn’t give for wildmagic right about now. Numair slowly sat up and, using the tree with his good arm, levered himself to his feet. To his consternation the bear rose onto its hind legs too, when it stood like that it was taller than him. 

Wide eyed Numair slowly backed down the slope, distance sounded like a great idea, he didn’t fancy being in range of those claws. Not only did the bear look like it could punch to greater effect than any human thug, but the claws would leave their own mark. Backing off seemed to do the trick, the bear lowered its forefeet back to the ground and turned away. Numair didn’t stop. The bear turned back to look at him. He tried very hard not to freeze or let out the hysterical laugh that was building in his throat. It was all too much. Then the bear swung its bulk away blatant dismissal. Numair kept on stumbling back until he tripped and stumbled righting himself only to fall to his knees in the mud. It was all too much.

The weight of the past year or however long it had been by now crushed down on him. The gasping laugh tore from his throat in ragged bursts, the effort of letting them out tearing white agony in his side. He pressed his injured arm to the wound and laughed until he was sobbing into the dirt. Maiden Mother Crone, why was this happening? Why couldn’t he be safely ensconced in Lindhall’s study avoiding Sunstone and cross referencing ambiguous tombs handwritten in defunct languages for spells which lacked any rational use? Why had Ozorne turned from him? Why would Ozorne hunt him? Why couldn’t he just be let to live? He hunched further into the dirt as his dismay unmade him.


End file.
